This Body is Bullshit

Before the last thing he said to me that night — the one that wasn’t “goodnight” or “I love you,” the one that made me take a Xanax because I knew it would eat at me all night — I was thinking about how grateful I was. Grateful for him, for our life, for the little world we’ve built together. Because of his hard work, something good and hopeful was finally taking shape. I planned to thank him in the morning, to tell him how much I appreciated him and how excited I was for what’s ahead.

But then came a quiet comment — one that cut deeper than he probably realized.

It wasn’t about money or secrets. It was about feeling misunderstood. About how sometimes I try to handle things quietly, not because I’m hiding anything, but because I don’t want to add more weight to his shoulders. I want to do things, make progress, have fun, be happy. He just has a different idea of how that looks — and sometimes that easy version of him only comes out around his closest friends. I try to protect him, to keep peace, to carry my share. Somehow it still lands wrong.

He’s a good, sensitive man. He takes care of our dogs like they’re his kids, and my daughter like she’s his own. He vacuums, mops, does laundry, mows the lawn, and picks up after me and the dogs. I’m truly grateful for that. But sometimes it feels like he’s already done everything before I even get a chance to. And then, without meaning to, he keeps an invisible scorecard — one where I always come up short.

I do feel bad about that. I do. But I also know I do things he doesn’t always see — quiet things, emotional things, the invisible labor that keeps the edges of our life from fraying. The kind of effort that doesn’t show up on a list or look like productivity, but it’s there — always there. And even when I’m exhausted or in pain, I’m still trying to hold things together. Sometimes chores for him are about quantity, while mine are about quality.

We’re coming up on ten years of marriage next month. Ten years. I want to feel that connection again — the joy, the laughter, the partnership that made us us. Lately, it feels like we’ve drifted into parallel lives. We share a home, a history, and a love, but we don’t always share a rhythm.

The pain and fatigue I live with are invisible too. People can’t see it, so they assume I’m fine. But it’s always there, a quiet hum beneath everything. And sometimes, when he looks at me, I can tell he doesn’t fully understand how hard I’m trying just to move through the day and still stay soft.

I love him, but sometimes it feels like he doesn’t even like me. He seems irritated, quick to argue, or shuts down completely. He scrolls on his phone instead of talking to me, and I end up feeling invisible. I miss when we used to talk, laugh, and look forward to things together. I wish he’d take more initiative — make plans, be spontaneous, show excitement about doing things with us.

I’ll be honest: sometimes I worry he’s not attracted to me anymore. I miss the way we used to flirt, the easy fun, the spark that made everything lighter. I don’t need constant romance, but I do need to feel wanted.

He’s quick to say no to most of my ideas. I know he doesn’t mean to shut me down, but it happens. Sometimes my excitement or joy seems to annoy him. My silliness, my energy — the parts of me that used to make him laugh — now seem to wear on him. I try to snuggle closer, and he pulls away a little. I know I can be a spaz sometimes, overly affectionate, probably too much — but that’s me. That’s how I love. We used to both be funny and silly.

And there’s one more thing I can’t shake: I know I’m not great at talking about my feelings out loud. That’s why I write. My blog isn’t just something I do for fun — it’s how I process everything, how I make sense of what I feel. It’s my therapy. So it stings that he’s never really taken the time to read it. Maybe it’s uncomfortable for him, or maybe he just doesn’t want to go there. But that also means he doesn’t really see the realness — the part of me that’s been trying to reach him in the only way I know how.

I’m not trying to guilt him. I just need him to understand that when someone you love doesn’t want to know what moves you or what you’re working through, it makes you feel unseen. I wish he wanted to know me on that level — to see what’s beneath the surface.

I miss feeling like we’re in sync — like teammates, not just two tired people keeping things running. I want us to plan weekends to actually do things together — finish the projects we’ve talked about forever, clean the garage, fix the bathroom, make our space feel new again. It’s not about chores. It’s about shared effort, shared laughter, shared purpose.

I know love changes. I know marriage ebbs and flows. But I don’t want to stop reaching for him. I don’t want to stop trying. Ten years in, I still want the laughter, the curiosity, the small spark that reminds us why we chose each other.

Maybe that’s what love really is — choosing to reach for each other again and again, even when it’s hard. And we do that, I think. But some days, like today, it just feels harder than others.